What Have We Done (48)
Donnie’s eyes lock on Zola’s as the wind dimples her umbrella.
“He said to tell you that you all had it wrong. The proof is with Boo Radley.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
JENNA
From the street, behind the shield of her motorcycle helmet, Jenna watches the man at the cemetery.
He was hard to miss, given the spectacle he created outside the church. Her heart aches, remembering the boy he was. So sweet. So fragile. She wasn’t at Savior House for long, but long enough to succumb to Donnie’s charm.
The rain’s coming down in a mist, and she wipes the helmet’s shield with her hand.
A woman holding an umbrella is speaking to him. He seems devastated. Even from this distance she can see it on his face. A similar expression she remembers from a rainy night twenty-five years ago on a patch of misery in Chestertown.
She watches as the two finish their conversation and head in different directions. The woman with the umbrella returns to the service; Donnie plods through the tombstones, lost in his head. In despair.
There’s no sight of the killer—the young woman who should be in college and going to parties, cheering on the football team, cramming for finals, but has chosen a life of murder for hire.
Jenna glances over her shoulder. The town car is still at her six. The same car was lingering near the church earlier. Is the female assassin inside?
No, she doubts that. Even an amateur wouldn’t be so obvious. The car is making its presence known. As if to signal that the occupant isn’t intending any harm.
We’ll see about that.
Grasping the handgun in her jacket pocket, she supposes it’s time.
She climbs off the motorcycle. But she doesn’t remove the helmet. Her eyes follow Donnie as he disappears down the street. He won’t be hard to find later.
The town car doesn’t follow Donnie. Yeah, it’s definitely here for her.
Jenna crosses the street. The car turns on its lights.
She grips the gun, walking toward the car head on, which is now slowly heading her way. A game of chicken. She scans the area. The escape routes. The places to take cover if bullets fly. But her instincts tell her there’s no threat.
The car edges closer.
She keeps walking.
Then the town car jerks to a stop; the driver gets out. He has the unmistakable bulge of a firearm holstered at his chest under his suit jacket. He walks slowly, deliberately, to the back door and opens
it.
He gestures for her to get inside.
Jenna takes off her helmet. Shakes out her hair. The gun is still clutched tight in her right hand.
She peers inside the vehicle.
“It’s been a long time,” is all the man says.
And with that she gets inside.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
NICO
Nico stuffs his clothes in his travel bag and proceeds to the hotel’s counter to check out. He hates Philadelphia. Hates Pennsylvania. When he was a kid, he swore he’d leave and never come back.
West Virginia isn’t exactly paradise, but it’s not here. He needs to get back to his life and the show before Davis steals his job. Before the FBI calls him in for questioning and his life really falls apart.
He would’ve left last night if there’d been any flights out. He feels bad about missing Ben Wood’s funeral, but it is what it is.
Out front to catch a cab, he’s taken aback by the mob and the blinding light of camera flashes. The paparazzi shout questions at him.
“Nico, is it true the explosion was intentional?”
“Nico, how are you feeling?”
“Nico, are you afraid for your life?”
“Nico, are you worried a deranged fan is after you?”
He shields his eyes with his hand and his mind jumps back to Mine B. The bright light on his attacker’s miner’s helmet.
He says, “No comment,” and pushes his way to the cab.
“Come on, Nico,” a paparazzo says. “Give us something, don’t be an asshole for once in your life.”
Nico looks at him. “My dad didn’t teach me much, but he said there’s one great thing about everyone thinking you’re an asshole.”
The paparazzo waits for him to explain.
“You get to act like one. Now fuck off.” He gets inside the car.
The cabbie blares his horn, moving slowly through the photographers crowding the street in front of the Ritz.
Nico puts in his earbuds, calls Shannon at the show.
“Hey, it’s me,” he says when the showrunner answers.
“Hey! I’m so glad you called. It’s been crazy here.” She sounds like she’s walking. Shannon is always on the move, dealing with problems on the set. “The sheriff announced that the explosion was intentional and the press went bananas.”
“Yeah, that’s what I assumed, based on the mob outside my hotel. How in the hell did they find
me in Philly?”
“No idea. It wasn’t me.”
Nico lets out a breath. “It’ll calm down. The news cycle will turn to something else.”
“I don’t know about that,” she says.
Nico shakes his head. No point in debating it. “I’m headed back. You should start thinking about some shows or special episodes about the mine collapse that we can milk for—”